Jon Sand, Bastard of Winterfell
by SnowBarksAtMidnight
Summary: The mysterious beginnings of Jon Snow, beloved son, nephew, and one-day king. Ned Stark's adventures in keeping a treasonous secret from nearly everyone. Arthur Dayne's adventures in raising a sassy little shit. Jon Snow living and growing in Winterfell, under the watchful eyes his Lord Father and Uncle Art.
1. Lyanna's Final Wish

_The Tower of Joy, Dorne, 283AC_

Ser Arthur Dayne, Knight of the Kingsguard and Sword of the Morning, stands at the sole window in the princess' quarters in the Tower of Joy. Calling it the princess' quarters is very generous, in Arthur's opinion. While the room may be spacious, it is sparsely decorated with a thin layer of sand and dust covering nearly everything. The princess rests on a large bed in the middle of the room. For Whylla, the midwife, there is a small cot in the corner. A table stands near the opposite wall, weighed down by books and letters from the crown prince, all unopened save one. Arthur had removed his white cloak long ago, a concession to both the heat and his own conscience. It was draped over a worn wooden chair that was next to the larger bed. Dawn was ever present at his side.

Arthur looks out the window, first at the blue sky, rose streaks just beginning to form, then at his sworn brothers standing guard, white cloaks nearly blinding in the bright Dornish sun. Days like this remind him of boyhood at the Water Gardens, playing in the waters with his sister Ashara, trailing after Prince Oberyn Nymeros Martell, trying to best Princess Elia Nymeros Martell at cyvasse. He thinks of happier times, when he was quick to laugh and even quicker to joke, when Elia was stronger, physically and mentally, and Ashara's eyes were always shining and dancing with happiness, not clouded with fear from months in the Red Keep. Of Elia, who he once believed to be impossibly strong, even after years of childhood illness. Of Oberyn, though not much every really changes with Oberyn, whose moods have ever been mercurial. Of Ashara, his dear sister, his only sibling to accompany him to the cesspool that is King's Landing.

Lyanna Targaryen, second wife to Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, inhales sharply, bringing Arthur out of the past. He looks towards the bed, eyebrow raised in question.

"What's happening out there?"

"A fair bit less than what's happening in here, Your Grace," Arthur answers with a charming grin. "Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold languish in the sun and a star appears to be falling from the sky."

"A sight you Daynes must see often enough!"

"Oh aye, the heat is often too much for you sensitive northerners," Arthur laughs.

"And all that is less than childbirth, Ser Arthur?" Lyanna jokes, "Such silly fears men have."

"Aye," Arthur agrees with mocking sagacity, turning to the window once more. Lyanna's barking laugh is cut short by another groaning whimper.

"My son picked a fine time to announce himself," she says, one hand pushing her Stark brown hair out of her face while the other smooths slowly over her stomach.

"A daughter born under a falling star in lucky indeed," Arthur counters, eyes drawn toward the horizon.

"A son born under a falling star must indeed be fortunate. A sign of a great warrior, perhaps." Lyanna remarks drily, glaring lightly at Arthur's turned back.

"Rhaegar believes your child to be a princess of the Iron Throne, Your Grace," Arthur says, ignoring her glare. Movement in the distance draws his eyes and his shoulders tense slightly. He tries to sound nonchalant as he says, "Riders are approaching. Seven of them."

"Rhaegar knows nothing; it is a boy. More wolf than dragon, I hope. If Rhaegar wants a princess, he can birth her himself. The riders, can you see their sigils?" Her breathing a quickened again and she sits up in the bed, eyes shining brightly. "Cregan is a good name, don't you think? Or Brandon."

"Dyanna, perhaps, or Alysanne. Or Visenya, as the prince suggested." Arthur answered. "I only recognize the one sigil, Your Grace, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you which one it is."

"All Targaryen brides, are you trying to tell me something Arthur?" Lyanna mocks. "If a man cannot even deign to be present for his child's birth, then he has no say in the name. Any wedded man knows as much, Arthur, so I shall not fault you for your ignorance."

"Surely a man who thinks he can keep his distressed wife locked in a tower knows at least one thing," Arthur shoots a grin over his shoulder at Lyanna. "That he won't be wed for much longer. Twin axes under a crown on a yellow background, a black horse on an orange background, a lizard-lion on a green back."

"I can leave this tower any time I wish, Arthur Dayne! With Thorne in my hand, nothing can stop me!" Lyanna steadies her breathing. "Dustin, Ryswell, and Reed. And the others?"

"With Thorne in your hand and Arthur Dayne by your side, you mean. A gauntlet on a red backing, wolves on a gray backing with black trim, and three buckets on blue with a checked trim." Arthur turns to look at Lyanna. "And a gray wolf on white leading them all."

"Glover, Cassel, and Wull with Ned, then. It's time." A short scream of pain escapes her and Arthur abandons the window to sit by her bed.

"What would you have me do, She-wolf?" Arthur asks as he approaches. "How can I help?"

Whylla responds, "You can leave this to the one who actually knows what she's doing, Ser. There's no use for swords here anymore."

"Playing with swords is what got her into this in the first place, Whylla!" Arthur laughs wryly.

Lyanna steals his hand and clutches it tightly. Red-faced from exertion, she glares at the Sword of the Morning. "Oh, aye, and what a great help the Sword of the Morning has been so far! Whylla is the only one of real help right now, you useless knight."

Arthur smiles at her, the kind of smile one gives to a child throwing a tantrum, while Whylla hands Lyanna a cup of water and fluffs her pillow.

"Men are only ever useful for one thing, Your Grace," Whylla remarks slyly, her head bowed to hide her mischievous grin, "Swordplay. As I'm sure Ser Arthur knows better than most."

"I'll have you I'm excellent at swordplay!"

"Enough about swords, please! I've a job to do, and so do you Arthur!" she grits her teeth. "You promised! Now go!"

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Arthur begins, his teasing expression replaced with concern, "I don't think-"

"No, you don't! It's time, right now, it's time!" Lyanna screams again in pain, hearing the shouting from outside and the clashing of steel. "Remember the plan, Arthur, please. Else I will wield Thorne and do it myself!"

Arthur grins and tries to joke, "Your Grace, it would be a bit difficult for you to wield a sword in your condition." It falls flat, but he squeezes Lyanna's hand reassuringly. "Are you sure you still want to do this, She-wolf?"

"Ser Arthur Dayne," Lyanna says in the voice of a perfect southron lady while crushing his hand, causing him to flinch, "Your princess kindly asks you to shut the fuck up and do as she says. Now."

Arthur huffs a small laugh and pries his hand from hers as the midwife, Whylla, places a cool cloth on Lyanna's forehead. With a flourish that earns him a strained smile from Lyanna, Arthur dons his white cloak once more; Whylla whispers softly to the princess, trying to soothe her pain. The heavy wooden door shuts behind him and Arthur leans against it for a moment, preparing himself for what is to come. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, thinks of his sister Ashara and of the Princess Elia, and of the gods he swore himself to so long ago. He steadies himself, quiets his mind, turns away from the disappointed ghosts of his fellow Kingsguard, pushes off the door and descends the stairs of the Tower of Joy. The sounds of fighting grow louder and the sky begins to bleed. The comet streaks ever closer across the sky.

When he reaches the bottom of the steps, only Ser Oswell Whent and Eddard Stark still stand, swords clashing. Stark sees Arthur, and retreats slightly, sword still at the ready. Arthur fingers his white cloak as he approaches the two and unsheathes Dawn slowly. He stops next to Oswell, head bowed, and tightens his grip on the shining sword. It is time.

"Arthur! You're here to help me kill the Usurper's Dog, then?" Oswell grins, "It took seven of them to kill Gerold, but they'll need an army if they hope to best us!"

Oswell glances in Arthur's direction briefly, but not long enough to see Dawn arcing towards him. As the pain tears through him, Oswell drops his sword and staggers, wide eyes staring at Arthur. Arthur grips Oswell's arm as he falls, and stares into his eyes as he slips a dagger into his chest. A quick death is all he can offer now.

"Forgive me, brother," Arthur whispers over Ser Oswell Whent's corpse. He closes Oswell's eyes and stands. He turns, Dawn hanging limply in his hand now, to the shocked face of the princess' brother. "Her Grace requests your presence, Lord Stark." Arthur sheathes Dawn and removes his white cloak, once a source of pride, and drops it on the ground. There is no need for it anymore. He glances once more at Stark, eyes lingering the hands tightening around the sword, before returning to the tower. The princess has need of him still, no matter how much she would deny it. The dead have no need of him anymore.

Eddard Stark hesitates, sword wavering in the air, as Arthur Dayne walks away from the bodies of his sworn brothers. His eyes stray to Howland Reed's. Is it a trick? Is a Kingsguard still a Kingsguard if he slays his own brothers? Eddard dithers, caught between lowering his sword or driving it into Dayne's back. Howland readies a small dagger, nodding at his liege-lord. Eddard inches forward, a ghost of a thought towards killing his sister's captor, when Lyanna wails from within the tower. Dayne startles takes the stairs quickly, panic evident in his stride. Eddard drops his sword in surprise and runs, following closely behind, stumbling briefly over the body of Ser Gerold Hightower.


	2. Don't Ever Forget

_Dead Man's Drink, King's Landing, The Crownlands_

"That's enough, Dayne!" Eddard runs his fingers through his hair, his frustration with the Dayne's repetitive subject of discussion evident. "I'm not a boy, I don't need coaching. Certainly not from you and certainly not in this. Robert is my friend, my brother, and I've known him nearly half of my life! I know what needs to be done. I know what I need to say." He reaches for the baby sleeping soundly in Arthur's arms.

"Your friend is a violent whoremonger who condones the murder of innocent children and even rewards said murderers, so forgive me if I refuse to put Jon in harm's way." Arthur moves out of reach, clutching a snoring Jon close. "I swore by the old gods and the new that I would die before letting anything harm my nephew. It is the one vow that I will never break."

"Nothing will happen to the boy," Eddard fumes quietly. "I've lost too much already, I won't lose anything else to this damned place, not my life, not my brother, not my nephew-"

"Your son, Stark!" Arthur turns his head sharply, eyes cutting into a wincing Eddard. The babe stirs in his arms and he bounces Jon lightly, trying to rock him back to sleep. "Your son, my nephew, sweet Ashara's boy! If you can't even keep it straight here, between us, then we're all fucked. Him, me, you, your fishwife, and her spawn. All of us! So keep your fucking facts straight!" Despite trying to control himself, his words still grow louder than he meant them to.

As if sensing his uncle's distress, little Jon awakens. Slowly, as if every movement is deliberate, he stretches and shakes his tiny fists and his mouth opens in a silent yawn. His hands then grip Arthur's shirt tightly and his eyes blink open blearily. Arthur nods his head at Whylla, standing silently in the makeshift nursery, eyes never straying from Jon's face.

"Take him," Arthur says. Eddard moves forward, hands once more reaching for the boy. "Whylla."

Tenderly, she removes the boy from Arthur's arms. "I think a feed and a nap are in order, little lord." She pauses in front of Arthur for a moment, bouncing the babe in her arms. Their eyes connect, his a calculating purple and hers a deep, loyal brown. In this moment, Arthur knows that Whylla will do everything in her meager power to protect the child, should Stark betray them. A breath, then Arthur nods.

She leaves for the adjoining room, cooing at Jon all the while; before she closes the door, she meets Arthur's solemn eyes one last time.. As the door shuts, Arthur moves. Between one blink and the next, he's grabbing the front of Eddard's shirt and walking the shorter man backwards. Eddard's back hits the wall with a light thump; a nervous glint has appeared in his eyes and his mouth has gone dry, but he makes no move to break free. Arthur leans close, eyes hard and lips curled in a snarl.

"My nephew will not be endangered by the likes of you, Stark." Arthur growls, his voice deepening. "Your son, he is your son. Say it now, to me, or I swear I will take him to his other family and the next time you see him will be when he comes, a man grown, to kill you, to rain the seven hells upon you and that disgusting fuck you call brother. And he will kill you, for the family you slew, for the mother you couldn't save, in fire and blood. I will ensure it, I promise you. Now, who is he?" His fist tightens, knuckles impossibly white from the strain.

Quietly, so quietly that Arthur can barely hear him, Eddard replies. Arthur holds the stare longer than necessary.

"Good." Arthur releases the shirt with a quick jerk and steps back, dismissing Eddard with a wave of his hand. "What is it your northerners say? The north remembers? Best if you don't ever forget, Stark."


	3. He Is My Son

_The Red Keep, King's Landing, The Crownlands_

Outside of the throne room in the Red Keep, Eddard Stark waits with his hands clasped in front of his body. The clenching of one hand is the only sign of his discomfort. He would much rather meet Robert in his study, or a tavern, or anywhere other than this gods damned throne room. Anywhere else, so long as he never has to see that scorch-marked floor or the steps where Tywin Lannister's pets had thrown the corpses of the little prince and princess ever again.

He may love the new king like a brother, but even Ned can admit that courtesy is not his strong suit. Or even kindness. Understanding, perhaps, was out as well. Ned muses, maybe while he sang Robert's praises, Lyanna saw the truth of him and fled. The realm saw the truth of him and plotted.

Arthur saw the truth of him and sneered. He saw the truth of Ned himself, too, and raged. He saw the truth of Lyanna, he must have to break a solemn oath to the gods. To kill someone he has lived and ate and fought with for so many years. To devote himself to a dead woman's son. To condemn himself to a life away from his true family, to surely be hated by those he once called friend, to be forever grouped with Lannister's oathbreaker of a son. To spend the rest of his days living a lie.

Arthur, Ned realizes, must have come to love Lyanna fiercely in their time together. Fiercely and deeply, to agree to raise another man's son, betray his oath to the gods and his own sworn brothers, and shame himself in front of the entire realm. And to call the boy Ashara's.

Would Robert have done the same for Lyanna? If he knew of the babe's true father, would his love for Lyanna stay his hand? Or would he turn his back and allow Tywin Lannister's rabid dogs to murder yet another child? Would he laugh again at the sight of Lyanna's babe with his head bashed in, if he knew that child to be half Targaryen? But surely, Ned thinks, Robert loved Lyanna to go to war for her and even now he loves her still. Arthur's voice drifts from the dark of his mind.

Arthur whispers, voice uncomfortably soft in Ned's mind, "Is his love for a dead woman enough to overcome his bloodlust for 'Dragonspawn'?" The words curl and drift through his thoughts, decimating all of Ned's poorly considered plans.

Can Ned truly risk Jon's life on Robert's devotion? Robert who, though Ned love's the man like his own blood, already has three bastards that Ned knows of. Bastards that Robert hasn't bothered to meet.

Perhaps if Robert just saw the boy first. Jon's resemblance to Lyanna is remarkable. He has her hair, a brown so deep it almost appears black. And Flint curls from Ned's own grandmother Arya. But Ned knows that even if he could guarantee Robert's reaction, Arthur would sooner kill them both than let him bring Robert anywhere near Jon.

Perhaps Arthur's rage is not for Ned, not truly, but for his own loss. And for the same fear that Ned himself feels, for Jon's life. For Jon, Arthur will ruin himself in the eyes of the realm and the gods. For a boy that isn't even his blood, Arthur would risk his life. What must he think of me, Ned thinks, that he would die for Jon and yet I waver? That question shocks him. Why is he debating over this decision, when he knows that Arthur is guaranteed to protect Jon? Is he really willing to risk his only nephew on the possibility of Robert's love? Arthur will defy all the gods to protect Jon. In this moment, Ned knows he must do the same.

Resolved, Ned thinks, for Jon. He would even lie to the gods themselves, if he must.

"He is my son," Ned whispers to himself, voice wavering at the lie. Behind him, the great doors leading to the throne room open and he is announced. He readies himself for the show, not to protect his reckless sister, but for the dark haired boy at the inn, too young know that he should be afraid. He repeats, still at whisper, but voice certain. "He is my son, Jon Snow."


	4. Ready to Head North

_AN: I'm still getting used to updating on here, so if you want to read this story with less delays (or other weird issues) then you can check AO3. The story and user names are the same._

 _Dead Man's Drink, King's Landing, the Crownlands_

The longer that Stark is gone, the more agitated Arthur becomes. He thinks of Lyanna and Ashara, both willful, beautiful, and dead before their time, and paces. He thinks of Elia and her babes, and he drinks. He thinks of Oberyn's coming rage, sure to be a storm not even the gods could weather, and he winces at a phantom pain.

He eyes the door leading to the makeshift nursery, contemplates entering. But Whylla, half his size and thrice as fierce, would rage at him, in that quiet way that reminds him of his own mother, to leave the babe alone. She grieves for Lyanna as well, he knows. Knows she wishes to lavish all of Lyanna's love on the boy for her. The boy is her last connection to the She-wolf, too, and every man and woman from Dorne knows that Sands stick together. He reaches for the wine again, more for its comforting smell than to actually drink it; his sister favored it, once. For a time, it was the only northern wine she could stomach. It is likely to be his last true connection to Ashara for many years and he wishes to savor it for as long as he can. Arthur sits quietly at the table now, back against the wall with both doors in his sight. Unbidden, Rhaegar comes to his mind.

Before he even realizes what's happening, Arthur hurls the cup of wine. It smashes against the wall next to the door just as it opens and Stark's face appears. The man in question ducks in a panic, sword swinging wildly as he tries to rush through the half opened door.

What a sight he makes, Arthur thinks as he laughs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Stark eyes the room, hears Arthur's uncontrolled laughing, and sheathes his sword with a huff. He eyes Arthur for a moment before shutting the door and sitting at the table.

"You're in a better mood, then," Stark says carefully, mindful of the stories of Dornish tempers.

"Aye, and you're here, alive and well," Arthur replies, forcing himself to be calm, "Which mean that the Usurper accepted your words. And what the king believes, the realm believes with him." He looks at Stark as he wipes the tears from his eyes.

"Well, I haven't been ordered to kill you or turn you over, so there's that." Stark jokes as he grabs the wine bottle, sniffs it and recoils slightly. "Not northern, is this?"

Arthur grins lightly. His sense of humor is almost as bad as the She-wolf's. "It's certainly not a fine Dornish wine. But it is northern."

Stark pours a glass of wine for himself, eyeing Arthur, not quite sure if the Sword of the Morning was making a joke or not. Deciding to ignore it altogether, he changes the subject. "Is everything ready for us to depart tomorrow?"

"Of course. As a wise man once said to me, you must always be prepared to make a quick escape." Arthur stands, stretching lightly. "Jon Sand is ready to head north."

After taking a large gulp of wine, Stark looks down at the cup in his hands as he says, "About that. I don't know who this Jon Sand is, but tomorrow Jon Snow begins his journey home."

As Arthur walks towards the nursery and steps through the door, he briefly looks at Stark over his shoulder. "That name," he drawls as he's closing the door, "is fucking dumb."


	5. For Lyanna

_AN: Hi everyone, thanks so much for your support! I'm taking a little break after this chapter and will resume posting on 9/12/18._

 _The Lord's Solar, Winterfell, The North_

After days of long silences and strained, too formal conversations with his wife, Ned was at his wits end. How had Brandon so easily navigated the southron waters of Catelyn Tully's mind? Upon returning to his childhood home as Lord Paramount of the North, she had proudly presented his heir, Robb Stark. Named for his oldest friend, she said, smiling brightly and red hair shining in the sunlight. Until she saw Dayne and the babe in his arms. News of the former Kingsguard's dishonor arrived before them. Her smile strained, then, and she clutched the red-haired babe close to her chest. Since then, her words and demeanor an icy polite that would have made his mother proud.

Now, finally, she had agreed to speak with him about the child who she was diligently ignoring. Ned is sitting behind his father's desk, his desk now, trying too hard not to fidget in the seat that is Brandon's by right. Was Brandon's. By the amused look on Dayne's face, his discomfort is not as well hidden as he had hoped.

"Well Stark," Dayne begins, "What, exactly, are you going to tell your fishwife?"

Ned gives him a sharp look, "Don't call her that, Dayne. She's the Lady Stark, give her the respect she deserves."

Dayne rolls his eyes and sits down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, legs stretching out in front of him. "She's a fish and your wife. And I'm not in the habit of respecting those that don't deserve it. Especially judgmental northerners. It's a lesson every Dornishman knows well."

Dayne may looked relaxed, stretched out like a cat in the sun, but Ned knows better than to lower his guard. Dornishmen are famous for their hot tempers, after all, and Ned has been burned by Dayne's temper before. He eyes the other man silently.

"I thought to tell her the truth," he finally says softly, waiting for the inevitable fight. Immediately Dayne shifts, straightening in his seat, eyes hardening. There it is, Ned thinks. Why is Dayne's mind so easy to predict, but Catelyn's is not?

"No," Dayne barks sharply. "We agreed, in King's Landing. We agreed at the tower, too. I'll not let you endanger that boy just because your fishwife refuses your bed."

Ned startles. How does he know what is happening in Ned's own home? He, red faced in a way that can only mean embarrassment, sputters, "That's not-"

"Don't lie to me, Stark. You're not nearly capable of that. You might feel guilty lying to her, but that's really why you want to tell her about Jon. Too busy thinking with your sword and not your head. You might be able to lie to everyone else in this frozen hell, but you can't lie to me."

"What am I to tell her, then?" Ned rages, a kind of restrained rage that suits the Quiet Wolf well. He usually wears discomfort well, but Dayne has a way of getting under his skin. Ashara was the same, he remembers suddenly. Something the two have in common, then.

"I'm sure she's at least bright enough to figure out what we agreed just on my presence here alone." Dayne condescends. "You needn't tell her anything. A disgraced Kingsguard and a babe, both of which you picked up in Dorne. It worked in King's Landing because it is already believable. The lie tells itself."

Ned mulled over Dayne's words. He was right. Catelyn need not know the truth. Jon had the Stark look for the most part and the eyes, a lavender so pale it looks gray in certain lights, would be explained by Dayne's presence. Dayne himself has his house's typical purple eyes. And his doting on the child which rivaled Ned's. The light raps on the door break the silence and mark his wife's arrival.

"What should I tell her?"

Arthur stands and walks towards the door, "What we agreed on. What you promised Lyanna. And remember, she may have been your brother's betrothed, but she's your fishwife now. In my experience, sometimes all a woman wants is a sign of respect."

He opens the door, revealing Catelyn. "Lady Stark," he says as he bows deeply, to deeply to not be an insult, and leaves with a flourish and a smirk. She scowls at him as deeply as her proper southron manners will allow and shuts the door with a thud.

"My Lord Husband," she says mildly, face placid, as she sits. "You wished to see me?"

Ned runs a hand down his face, "Yes, I did."

Her lips purse, "It's about the boy. The one Ser Arthur brought here with him."

"About Jon, yes, to some extent." He replies cautiously. "And Dayne, as well."

He watches as her back stiffens and her face blanks. He continues, "The king has granted Dayne clemency in exchange for never leaving the North without my permission. Dayne agreed to the king's terms and I've agreed to house and watch him."

"He brought a bastard with him. A Sand." Catelyn says lightly, as if her assumptions were correct, "Surely the boy belongs in Dorne with whatever woman tempted Ser Arthur from his vows."

Ned pauses. She has fooled herself, he thinks, and now I must dash her hopes. "In truth, My Lady, the boy is a Snow, not a Sand."

"Brandon's then, with that Dornish woman. The one from Harrenhal." Her voice has a slight quiver, her only concession to the pain borne from Brandon's shadow.

"The Lady Ashara." Ned stiffens in preparation for what he is about to say and his eyes narrow. "He isn't Brandon's."

She eyes him then. "Who's son is he?"

Ned pauses and catches her eye. He knows that he must tell her, but it will hurt. It will hurt the fragile peace they had brokered all those months ago in Riverrun. No doubt it would hurt Jon's relationship with his aunt as well, and Jon will suffer for it. Somehow, he knows, Dayne will make that all Ned's fault. And it will hurt Catelyn herself, perhaps more than anyone else.

"My Lord, whose son is he?" Catelyn asks, louder now, her voice more insistent. Still, Ned is lost in his own thoughts. Why did the lie come so easily in front of Robert?

The silence stretches on, and the room becomes more and more tense. Maybe if he waits long enough, she will figure it out on her own and he won't need to say the words. Maybe Dayne was right. Maybe his reasoning is skewed. Why, Ned asks himself, did he agree to this absurd plan in the first place? The answer comes to mind immediately. For Lyanna. So he steels his nerves. For Lyanna.

"Jon Snow is my son." He finally voices the lie and waits for her reaction.

Catelyn wilts for a moment, before surging up in anger. "Is that all, My Lord?" she bites, icy demeanor once more in place. Surely, given how quickly she assumed the child to be Brandon's, she had prepared for such things? But Ned is not Brandon, he knows, and has never truly been like him. There's no way Catelyn could have been given any indication that Brandon's vices were also Ned's, even if such a similarity is purely fiction.

"No!" Ned rises slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. "He is my bastard, aye, but you are my wife. Robb is my heir. I only wished to ask how to earn your understanding, My Lady."

"Send the boy away. Bastards are evil things, and a Dornish bastard can only become jealous and wanton. He will only bring trouble." She responds quickly, eyes defiant.

Ned closes his eyes in pain, "I cannot. He is my son. He will be raised with Robb and any other children the gods see fit to grant us, My Lady."

"He will be a blight on House Stark! The seven curse all bastards!" She raises her voice, a product of her composure slipping. "Like all bastards before him, he will rise up! He will try to usurp his brother, all bastards do!"

He glares at her then, a look that makes her flinch. His voice is hard and low as he says, "Your southron gods may curse the child, but this is the North! No child of Stark blood, bastard or trueborn, will be a curse! Jon is my son and he will be raised here! I'll not turn him away, no matter what some southron gods say."

"Then that is all, My Lord. Good day." Catelyn leaves in a flurry and Ned sinks back into his chair.

He was too harsh with his words, he knows. And he should not have attacked her gods, no matter how strange and cruel their edicts might be. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself. How do I earn her forgiveness? Maybe Dayne is right in this as well. Ned thinks, hunched over his father's desk, his forefathers' desk, and now his. A southron bride must follow southron gods, he decides. "A sept," he says to himself, "I shall build her a sept here."

Outside, a heavy wind picks up, a fierce howling that shakes the windows of the solar. Ned jumps. Such gales are unusual in spring, but not wholly unheard of. In the Godswood, the branches of the sacred trees shake violently, limbs cracking and red fingers twisting, and the Heart Tree begins to weep blood red tears.


	6. Bone Deep

_Jon's Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC_

Stars sparkle across the great black canvas of the Northern sky. Their iridescent lights dance across the snow covered ground, twirling and shining over the white stage. Snow softly drifts to the ground, carried by an icy, unforgiving wind. Unaffected by the harsh weather, Jon Snow fumbles towards the ancient crypts of Winterfell, his eyes staring forward, pupils hazy and unfocused, and his unsteady feet sliding on the frozen stone path. He shivers as a chill dashes up his back. The wind wraps around him, ruffles his hair and pushes him forward, as if urging him closer to his destination. The scrape of his boots on the stone path is the only sound, but he looks over his shoulder anyway, unused to the silence. He pauses for a moment and considers turning around and going to the Godswood instead, but he knows that not even the gods can hide him from what is to come. He sighs silently, going through the motion but consciously not making a sound, and continues towards his destination.

Torches now cast a warm glow across the alcove and Jon's eyes flash a pale lavender briefly when he looks at them. The crackle of the burning wood is almost deafening in the silence. Jon stops and stands just in front of the heavy wooden doors guarded by twin stone direwolves. He waits in front of the beasts, eyeing them cautiously. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, his mouth suddenly too dry. Soon, he knows, they will come for him. They will find him wherever he is, he knows. He has no choice but to face them.

Seconds or hours later, the surrounding shadows begin to stretch across the ground, gnarled fingers reaching for him across the growing darkness, and the torches die with a nearly voiceless sizzle and the pungent smell of freshly burned ash. The wolves begin to breathe, to move; where once there was stone patterning, there was now true fur, one russet and the other a nearly endless black. The wolves, almost as large as horses, shift their stances, claws and teeth growing. They shake themselves and turn their ice blue eyes towards the intruder. They stalk towards him now, teeth bared in silent growls. As they begin to circle closer, Jon shrinks down into himself with his hands moving over his head. He trembles. As the wolves circle closer, tears stream silently down his face. He is shaking now, panicking. His breath is catching in his throat and he's forcing himself to not make even the slightest sound, for fear of angering the beasts. He is an outsider here and must prove something to them, though he doesn't know what exactly; the wolves know this and will surely kill him if he fails to impress them.

Still, he refuses to make a sound, scared of startling the great beasts. They come closer and closer, and he can feel the cold radiating off of them, leeching all heat from his body. Unused to ever truly feeling the cold, he shivers violently.

He startles awake, still in his own bed in Winterfell's great castle, not outside near the ancient crypt. He rubs his eyes harshly, trying to erase the dream from his thoughts. Vibrant colors flare on his eyelids from the pressure, but no amount of rubbing will wipe the dream away forever. He knows that in a few days, or weeks, the dream will return. It always does. He doesn't remember when he began having this dream, but he knows, as sure as his name is Jon Snow, that this dream will plague him forever. He shivers; the bone deep cold from his dream has followed him to the waking world. This cold, Jon muses, is the only chill that has ever truly affected him. Perhaps this is a sign of his Stark blood, for he is unaffected by the snows of Winterfell and the North.

He takes a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and strains his ears to determine if the rest of the castle is yet awake. He hears the soft steps of the servants preparing for the day, so he rises from his bed and stretches lightly, like Uncle Arthur showed him weeks ago when he truly began his sword training. It is much earlier than he usually wakes, and he knows that Uncle Arthur will question him about it if given the chance, but Jon will risk it because he cannot go back to sleep. He will not. So he dresses in his black training leathers, a gift from Father but colored per Uncle Art's insistence, and splashes some water on his face to chase the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes.

He clutches the water basin, droplets streaming down his face, and stares hard at himself in the looking glass. He avoids looking at his own eyes and instead stares at the light bruises around them, a sure sign of his poor sleep. Today, Jon thinks, today I will prove myself to Uncle Arthur and he will be so impressed that he will make me his squire.

And hopefully I will be too tired to dream this night, he thinks darkly.


	7. Familial Duties

Arthur's Guest Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC

Arthur Dayne wakes with the sun though he cannot see it, an unfortunate remnant of his time as a Gold Cloak. He is too used to waking early and retiring late, though today the slight burning in his eyes tells him that he woke much earlier than usual. He stretches his whole body before slipping out of bed. He readies quickly; he knows there is no hope of falling back to sleep, not after the dream he had. Even after all these years, he is still haunted by Rhaegar's ghost; he still remembers the curve of his jaw, the slant of his lips, the way his hair glowed near blindingly in the light of day. The way his rare smiles burned as bright as the stars above. Arthur jerks his head, as if the action will rip all memories of the Silver Prince from his mind. He mentally braces himself and whispers a quick prayer, sure that he'll need the gods help to survive this day.

The only outward signs of his discomfort are the tightness in his chest and the deep, shuddering breath he takes to steady himself before leaving his room. He spies a few servants slipping through the castle on nearly silent feet.

He heads to the yard to begin his morning training, as he does every day. As he wanders down the halls, he winks at a guard who reddens and scowls in response. Arthur smirks to himself in amusement and continues on his way. He steals a roll from the kitchens with a quick smile of gratitude directed at the head cook, Gage. Gage swats at him halfheartedly, well used to Arthur's morning thievery by now. Arthur, despite being so obvious an outsider in the North, has nearly succeeded in befriending all the servants in the castle. Gage, at least, is the most tolerable of Arthur's antics. The guards, too, have grown used to his mild flirting, or at least have accepted that Arthur gains too much amusement from their reactions to ever change his ways.

As he continues towards the yard, Arthur's boots scrape softly on the stone path and he spies Septa Mordane ahead of him. She sneers as he passes and he purposefully leers at the woman. Her eyes grow wide and she hurries away from him as quickly as she can without actually running. The septa, of course, has stayed well away from him, most likely because stories of licentious Dornishmen. While he tries to at least keep up appearances, he prefers having the septa as far from himself, and Jon by extension, as possible. Septon Chayle sees the exchange just as he leaves the sept himself. Arthur smirks at the man, crumbs on his lips and cheeks plumped up from his stolen meal, and throws him a jaunty wave, which the septon returns happily.

He finishes the roll just as he ambles into the yard. "Ser Rodrick, the gods smile upon us both today, it seems!"

Rodrick Cassel, the Master-of-Arms, rolls his eyes and returns Arthur's greeting. "I've beaten you here today, Ser. The boy beat you as well." He cocks his head in the direction of Jon who is stoically working through his steps. The stubborn, too serious expression on Jon's face makes Arthur smile, a small bittersweet thing, and think of the She-Wolf. Jon's melancholic nature may remind Arthur of the boy's father, but his single-minded determination to master the blade is all his mother.

Arthur quickly rearranges his grin into something more cheerful before turning to Rodrick. Of all the people in Winterfell, he respects Rodrick the most, for he has never once referred to Jon as 'the bastard' in Arthur's presence. Nor in Jon's, he thinks, and the blatant kindness contradicting the Fish's silent expectations brings Arthur no small amount of smug satisfaction.

"How long has he been here?" Arthur asks as he watches Jon run through his stances; the boy's tongue is just starting to peak out of his mouth as he begins to move faster.

"Longer than I. He was here when I arrived." Well, Arthur muses, that can't be good.

Arthur grabs a practice sword, "I suppose I must perform my duties as uncle, then." And show him those openings, he thinks to himself. "We'll spar later, aye?"

Rodrick looks upward, a long-suffering expression on his face, though Arthur can see mirth dancing in the man's eyes. "Aye, I'll just put my affairs in order then, shall I?"

Arthur grins in response, a quick show of teeth that, had Rodrick not known the southren knight so well, would have sent the castellan running. As it is, he only half-heartedly waves Arthur away before returning to his duties.

Arthur twirls the wooden sword as he ambles over over to Jon and catches the boy's eye before lunging, sword held loosely in his hand and a wide grin on his face. A small smile blooms on Jon's face, Rhaenys' smile. Rhaegar's smile. A shadow crosses Arthur's face quickly, but he chases it away for Jon. He will not be haunted by ghosts today. He forces a reckless grin, but knows the emotion does not quite reach his eyes.

Jon notices, but does not comment. At least, Arthur muses dryly, he's learned feigned ignorance well enough. A few years more and he might even give those vultures in King's Landing a challenge.

"Uncle Art!" Jon says happily, arm dropping his arm to his side "Will we train together today? I've warmed up already, can we start right now?"

"Raise your sword, Jon." Arthur moves languidly, more intent on correcting Jon's movements than actually sparring. "Come on, sword up, just as I taught you."

As Jon begins to move, a look of fierce concentration on his face, Arthur responds just fast enough to push him, content with easing the boy into moving, thinking, and reacting faster. They have time still for Jon to grow, though Arthur knows he's been pushing Jon faster and farther than Ned would like. Jon, of course, readily soaks up whatever Arthur teaches him. Arthur realizes he's been gawking now, but Jon doesn't notice Arthur's staring, too focused on not getting hit. His tongue makes another appearance, his eyes focusing so intently on Arthur that he doesn't notice it peeking out of his mouth. The She-Wolf's obvious mannerisms appearing in her son helps to further loosen the knot in Arthur's chest.

"You're here earlier than usual, nephew." Arthur asks, intentionally trying not to sound too interested. Jon, he knows, is much like a cat; you need to let him come to you. Push him too hard and he will disappear, only to reappear at the most inconvenient of times. "But then, so am I. I slept poorly, you see. Night terrors."

Jon flinches and tries to quickly hide it. Arthur notes this and then pretends to have missed it; his eyes sweep over Jon, cataloguing his nephews movements and making note of what to discuss with him later.

"I went to sleep early yesterday," Jon replies, avoiding Arthur's probing eyes. Ah, Arthur thinks proudly, I've taught you too well, nephew, if you can see through me this easily. "And so I woke a little earlier than usual today, Uncle."

Another nightmare, Arthur thinks. "Hm, excited to train as well, I suppose."

Jon flashes that all too familiar smile, the one that always brings a quick, stabbing pain to Arthur's heart. "Of course, Uncle! A squire should be dedicated to their training!"

"You're right, of course. And I suppose I should make note of this dedication of yours, then? For the future, should I ever decide to take a squire." Arthur teases with a sly grin. "Come on then, I know you can do better than this."

Arthur pushes harder, moves faster, and Jon rises to meet him. A proud smile drifts lazily across Arthur's face. Jon's eyes brighten in return. He'll speak to me when he's ready, Arthur thinks, but until then I will do my best to wear him out. He smirks and darts toward Jon, tripping him up. As he helps Jon stand, he laughs at the look of contempt on the boy's face. The curve of the lip and the fire in his eyes are all the She-Wolf and such reminders of her always bring a genuine smile to Arthur's face. Jon, misinterpreting the laugh as a tease, rises quickly and readies himself for another bout. The She-Wolf's determined look is reflected on her son's face once again. The knot in his chest loosens just a little bit more.


	8. Impossibly Blue

Jon's Room, Winterfell, The North, 291AC

Once more, Jon stands in front of the two great wooden doors. He knows, as he has always known, that he must continue onward. A deathly silence surrounds him, the world so still that he's sure the pounding of his heart must be audible. Isn't it odd, he thinks, this stillness? Where are Uncle Art and Father? Robb and little Sansa and Arya? There are no servants, either, no sounds of life. There are swords on the ground too, shattered and broken with shards strewn everywhere. Cloaks, too, lay atop the snow, some torn and bloody. Jon cannot remember what happened here, but he knows that everyone else is gone. He is alone. The silence is too much, maddening and aching and tears well up in his eyes, refusing to fall, and his throat hurts and his chest is too tight and he cannot mourn, not now. Winterfell is dead. Jon is the only one left. Winterfell is dead. Only he walks the grounds and sleeps in the beds and prays in the Godswood and breathes the air. Only Jon alone lives and he must push forward. Winterfell is dead and he must move, else all is lost. So here he stands, facing the stone beasts, heart racing and blood rushing and breathing so shallowly that he might as well be holding his breath.

Again, the stone guardians come to life as the light dies and the shadows reach across the ground. Their glacial eyes watch him carefully as they approach; they burrow deep into his soul, probing and gouging and leaving a hollow, near lifeless feeling in their wake. Jon sinks into himself as the wolves circle closer and closer. He tries not to make any sound, but still hears the quiet huffs of his own breaths. The beasts must hear it too. The shadows twist and stretch around their forms and Jon shivers violently from the harsh cold. He looks up quickly and startles; a wolf snarls at him, too close. He can't breathe and the wolves are moving closer and he forces his eyes shut so tightly that he can see bright, colorful lights dancing across the endless black of his eyelids and the wolves are closer than ever now, he can smell the stone of their bodies and the earthen dirt on their fur and he doesn't want to leave Uncle Art or Robb or Father or Sansa, already a little lady, or the little hellion Arya and he doesn't want to die but he will if it will protect them, he swears he will.

Suddenly, the frigid cold lessens, but he can still feel the ghost of it in his bones. He looks up just as the wolves settle in front of the doors once again. As one wolf returns to stone, the other still watches him, too-blue eyes piercing him, warning him, before returning to its sleep. Jon is waiting, limbs still trembling, for what feels like hours. Finally, he inches forward and stops. The wolves do not reawaken. He shuffles forward slowly, watching for any movement. His boots scratch across the ground, the sound shattering the quiet, and Jon freezes, his eyes wide and his heart pounding, but the wolves do not wake. He begins moving towards the doors again, so slowly that he can feel his muscles straining, urging him to move faster, but he won't.

When he reaches the towering doors, he rests his palms on them and shoves with all his might. The door creaks loud enough to wake the dead. He winces at the sound, hurries inside, and quickly shuts the door behind him. He refuses to suffer the wolves again so soon. He rests against the doors for a moment, eyes closed, as he tries to take deep, calming breaths the way Uncle Arthur showed him once when the world and the noise and Robb and Lady Stark's glares were too much. He breathes deeply once more before opening his eyes and begins walking into the depths of the crypts. He stumbles over loose rocks and his eyes are darting around and he still isn't breathing right but he keeps moving. He passes row upon row of severe stone faces in heavy crowns, hands clutching iron swords. All are frowning at him. Nervously, he starts walking faster and faster until suddenly he is running down the long, poorly lit corridors, and his breaths are sharp and loud and he can barely see anything but he keeps moving forward. He hears whispers, now, coming from every direction. Some are soft, calling sweetly to him. Come deeper, they sigh, down and down and down into the quiet, barren dark. Find us. Others are harsh screams for him to leave. He does not belong here, they howl. He knows this, but there's something he must do. Something he must find, deep within the catacombs.

What light there once was is dying now and something is wrong with the air; it is too heavy. He can't breathe properly anymore, his chest is heaving and his throat aches, each breath brings a sharp pain with it, but still he runs onward. The shadows are growing, and the air is thinning, and the cold is returning. This cold is wrong, different from before. It scares him. He has never felt a cold like this, a bone-deep chill that burns, somehow, burns his skin and his eyes and his lungs. He can see his breath now, small puffs of white mist in the dying light. He wants to turn back, to find Uncle Arthur or Father. He doesn't want to be here anymore, but the Winter Kings are behind him now, he knows they must be, he can hear the groaning of their dead limbs and the scrape of swords on the ground. He runs and runs and runs, but they are still right behind him, getting closer and closer to catching him. And they will never let him leave.

He stumbles, startled, but regains his footing; he moves forward still, but slower now. His ankle hurts, each step shooting a dull pain up his leg. One voice catches his attention, muted, and yet he can still hear it perfectly over the screams. Soft and kind. Her voice is soothing, what he imagines his mother's would have been like. It's like Uncle Arthur's voice, he realizes. The one he uses when he comforts Jon after Lady Stark or Theon or one of the servants says something needlessly cruel. He has slowed his run, trying to find the voice, but it is all around him. Still, he does not understand what she is saying, her words to soft for him to understand. He turns and turns, more corridors appearing around him. He is not alone. The shadows are here with him and the Winter Kings are not far behind. He can see outlines of their bodies in the shadows.

The kind voice sounds worried now and he's panicking. Corpses are lurching towards him, closer and closer, too-blue eyes piercing through the darkness. These are not the Winter Kings, he thinks, they can't be. These dead are cursed. They must be cursed. I am not a Stark, he thinks, but I have Stark blood in my veins. I belong here, same as you!

The grotesque, twisted corpses keep moving towards him. His eyes dart around wildly, looking for a gap in their ranks. His heart will surely beat right out of his chest. They move ever closer, rotting bodies surging forward, hands clawing at his cloak. The voice shrieks in his ears, "Ñuha trēsy, run!".

Jon Snow wakes up in his little bed in a forgotten corner of Winterfell, chest heaving and sweat running down his face. He remembers seeing eyes in dark sockets. Impossibly blue eyes, a blue so cold they burned, set deep in a dead man's face.


	9. I Swear It

_The Godswood, Winterfell, The North, 291AC_

Arthur Dayne woke in a flash, limbs flailing in a way entirely unbecoming of a Kingsguard, phantoms still clinging to him, their bony fingers digging deep into his flesh. Hunched over, he rubs his hands down his face and determines that he won't be able to continue sleeping this night. He can't. He stretches, muscles pulling and spine popping, to chase the sleep from his bones. He groans, a low rumble from deep within his chest, before standing and splashing some night-chilled water on his face. He grips the edge of the stone bowl and leans so far forward that his forehead almost touches the looking glass. After a few moments, he looks up and catches his own purple eye in the reflection. He scowls darkly before he turns away to dress. From the chill that has already set upon his room, Arthur knows that this day will be more ungodly cold than usual. Days like this one make Arthur nearly regret ever leaving Dorne. Nearly. But then he thinks of Elia's children, of Lyanna's, and he knows that he will brave the seven hells themselves to protect Lyanna's son. He failed Elia, but he will not fail Lyanna. Not again.

And, Arthur thinks savagely, it's not like he will ever be welcome in Dorne again. Even traveling south of the Neck so soon after the war is an unneeded risk. The northmen are not the only ones with long memories.

Shaking his head lightly to chase away his dark thoughts, Arthur leaves his room. The hall is even colder and, judging by the torches that still light the halls, it will be some time until the sun rises. He strolls towards the kitchens, a daily routine for him now, and spies a new guard in the halls. Arthur slows, appreciates the man's figure, before picking up his pace once more. As he passes the guard, he turns to catch the man's eye and smirks. He has to restrain his laugh as the guard quickly averts his eyes. For all the similarities between Dorne and the North, their reactions to his casual flirting are refreshing in its embarrassed acceptance, so unlike the disdain of the rest of Westeros.

As he continues his stroll to the kitchens, he sees movement in the corner of his eye. It's Jon, awake much earlier than usual; he's crouched slightly, hunched over as if trying to protect himself. He doesn't notice Arthur, who abandons his original destination and begins to follow quietly. When Jon reaches the door leading to glass gardens and the Godswood, Arthur can't quite catch the sigh that leaves him. Like Ned, Jon finds solace with the silent weeping of the North's gods. Unfortunately, for Arthur, the old gods dwell in the forest instead of a nice, warm sept. So he braces himself against the icy wind and continues after Jon, who marches quickly not to escape the cold, but to reach the solace offered by the gods.

When Arthur reaches the center of the Godswood, he stops shortly and smiles sadly. Jon, he sees, is nestled against the Heart Tree like a scared child against their mother. As much as he tries, as much as Ned tries, they cannot replace a mother's love. And Lady Stark, Arthur snarls in his own mind, is no mother at all to Jon, who wants nothing more than a mother's love. Of all the people Arthur hates in this world, Catelyn Tully is in a constant battle for second with the ghost of a long dead man. He still remembers the sour look on her face when Ned presented Jon to her, the cold, hard look of a hatred so pure directed at a defenseless babe. So much for Family, Duty, Honor, he had thought at the time. He still thinks such thoughts occasionally, when the Fishwife says or does something that makes the hard-won smiles on Jon's face die.

He inches closer and Jon still has not noticed him. After making a note to have the boy work more on his awareness, Arthur deliberately steps on a stick. The crack echoes eerily across the grove, too loud in this sacred place. Jon's head snaps up, eyes searching wildly until they land on Arthur. He shrinks into himself and Arthur rubs the back of his neck in fake sheepishness.

"I'm surprised to see you here, Jon," Arthur says.

Jon stares at him in silence for a moment, melancholy eyes drilling into his soul. "Why are you here, Uncle Art?"

Arthur moves forward languidly, "Why does anyone come to a sanctuary?"

"You don't keep the old gods, Uncle," Jon says, partly suspicious but mostly exasperated. "You don't keep any gods."

Jon moves, making room for Arthur to sit next to him. "Every knight swears their vows in front of the gods, Jon."

"The old gods don't ask for vows. They don't need them." Jon's sigh makes him sound put-upon, as if they've had this conversation before. "And we are of the North, our way is the old way. Anyway, just because you swear them doesn't mean you actually believe in the gods themselves."

Arthur rolls his eyes, "Since when are you so cynical, nephew? And the mysterious old way, huh? You know, I'm starting to think that's just something you northerners say when you don't want to explain something."

Jon laughs quietly in response. His shoulders relax and he leans into Arthur's side. The two sit quietly for a time, both lost in their own thoughts. Jon, Arthur thinks, is too young to be so serious. He wants to blame Rhaegar, but even the Dornish know that bastards grow quicker than true-born children. And despite his best efforts, Jon has always been the melancholy sort. Thankfully, much of his dour disposition is false, a mask to hide his thoughts. As much as Arthur wishes it unnecessary, he knows that being able to hide his emotions can only help Jon in the future.

Jon shifts, drawing Arthur's attention. "Uncle Arthur? What does 'Ñuha trēsy' mean?"

Arthur looks at Jon, brows raised in surprise. "Where did you hear that, Jon?"

While he knows that Jon has been learning other languages at his insistence, he knows his nephew well enough to know that Jon would never think of delving into a language that Arthur himself has not yet truly spoken of.

"Just in a dream I had, once. But what does it mean?"

"My son," Arthur replies, voice soft and mind racing. Where could he have heard such a thing here, he thinks. "It means 'my son' in Valyrian."

"Oh," Jon says. He's quiet for a moment. "Uncle Arthur?"

Arthur shifts against the Heart Tree and hums in response. "You won't ever leave me, will you?"

Arthur pauses in mild shock. He glances at Jon before ruffling the boy's hair. "I would never, I swear it by the old gods and the new."

Instead of his usual bluster in the face of Arthur's rare seriousness, Jon leans further into Arthur's side. His smile is small, but his relief is evident all the same. A tinge of sadness grows in his smile.

In a soft voice, Jon says, "Winter is coming, Uncle Arthur."

"Aye, Jon." Arthur responds. "And the night is darkest just before dawn."

For a while, the two stay there underneath the Heart Tree, side by side. The quiet and serene calm chases the shadows from both their minds. Someday, they will both have to face these shadows, but for now, they sit together under the great red canopy until the sun rises.


End file.
